


it's all coming back to me now

by casualdisaster



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, I Love You, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), extraordinary abuse of the common comma, martin deals with the fallout from being in the Lonely, martin says the f word, me? projecting onto martin blackwood? it's more likely than you think!, post episode 159, scottish safe house fic, there's only one bed, they drove to scotland because i thought that would be funny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:06:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24326995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualdisaster/pseuds/casualdisaster
Summary: Jon and Martin drive to the safehouse in Scotland. Martin has a lot to think about."He wants to talk, to shake off the last vestiges of the Lonely's grasp on him. It still lingers, like the way mist clings to you, but there's not much he can do about it right now. He hasn't said two words since Jon pulled him out of the Lonely, and he hasn't really wanted to. He feels a sort of quiet inside him, peaceful but also hollow and empty. He’s not really sure what it means."
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 50
Kudos: 348





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it's never stated how they get to the safehouse and the thought of them driving there was just hilarious to me??? so i decided to write about it, and then it got sad and oof.
> 
> anyway this was only supposed to be short?? and then it turned into a 5k+ behemoth, which is honestly the most i've written for a single chapter fic in a very very long time!
> 
> i have depression and anxiety and very clearly projected them both onto poor martin for this fic!
> 
> first work in the fandom, please be gentle! also if there's something you think i need to tag, PLEASE let me know!!

They're driving. 

Or rather, Martin is driving. They’re on the motorway hurtling up to the Scottish Highlands; Daisy has a safe house there - because of course she does - and that's where they're headed, somewhere to lay low after the... events of the last few days. They have over eight hours and nearly five hundred miles total to cover, and while it feels an awful lot like running away, he's aware that it's almost their only option right now. There's probably still nowhere they can go that Elias – no, not Elias,  _ Jonah. _ Jonah. Freakin'. Magnus. The same Jonah Magnus that founded the Magnus institute over  _ two hundred _ years ago.

Despite everything else that's happened in the last two and half years or so, Martin finds this the hardest thing to comprehend. Monsters and things that prey on fear? That, at least, makes some semblance of sense. But a man that ties his life to a building and also manages to ‘body hop’ for over two hundred years? It’s a little hard to wrap his head around. He wants to talk about it, to talk to Jon about everything that just happened, but the other man had passed out moments after he finished his explanation about all that Martin had missed while being... groomed, he supposes, by Peter Lukas. For the Lonely.

He wants to talk, to shake off the last vestiges of the Lonely's grasp on him. It still lingers, like the way mist clings to you, but there's not much he can do about it right now. He hasn't said two words since Jon pulled him out of the Lonely, and he hasn't really wanted to. He feels a sort of quiet inside him, peaceful but also hollow and empty. He’s not really sure what it means, only that he still bears the mark of the Lonely. He’s fairly sure that he’s not an avatar or whatever, and that while the lonely may still have some power over him, it can never truly claim him. After all, he never really gave himself over to the entity. While he did purposely isolate himself from everyone, he at the very least had a reason for doing it, something to hold onto whenever he found himself slipping. A reason who sits sleeping in the passenger seat beside him – or at least what Martin  _ thinks  _ is sleeping.

This is the first time since coming out of the Lonely that they haven’t been touching, and he misses it. He hasn’t really shared anything other than a few passing conversations with another human in almost a year, and he hadn’t really realised just how much he missed it, craving it to the point it was a physical ache. At least, not until Jon appeared in front of him on that cold and empty beach and told him, in a voice impossibly soft, that he no longer had to be alone.

That had been what had broken him in the end, cleared the majority of the fog from his mind and opened his eyes; the fact that Jon had come for him. Martin spent most of his time giving - making tea for everyone, caring for a mother that hated him, smothering his feelings for the sake of others - that it never truly occurred to him that somebody might be willing to do the same for him. Jon himself had entered the pocket dimension, obliterated Peter Lukas, and  _ forced _ Martin to see him. He’d been so close to the edge, to wrapping that shrouded mist of the Lonely around himself and succumbing to it completely. How can you fight something that speaks in your voice and repeats your thoughts until it’s almost indistinguishable from the voice in your own head? Something that sings to you, low and seductive, wrapping you in it’s comforting embrace, soft and soothing. He’d fought so hard to save Jon, only realising too late that he was about to lose himself in the process.

He remembers that there was nothing; only a gentle quiet that would last forever, that would keep him from harm. He’d never have to feel the pain of losing Jon - of losing  _ anyone _ \- ever again. He’d felt his feelings, his colour, his  _ life, _ draining out of him until there was practically nothing left. Except… There remained one single thread, a last tether that kept him grounded. Something that kept him looking back with a sort of bland disinterest, yet still feeling as if his whole being was holding its breath and waiting.

And then there was Jon. 

He was staring right at him, first gripping Martin’s arms and then his face, demanding he look, demanding that he  _ See _ .

So Martin looked.

In a world of cold, unending grey, Jon was a riot of colour and warmth, of life and vitality.

He remembers, now - tears blooming in his eyes and faintly blurring his vision of the road - how he’d felt looking into Jon’s eyes and realising that not only could he see Jon for everything he was, but that Jon could see  _ him _ . For possibly the first time since they’d met, Jon was looking  _ right at him _ . 

Standing on that beach, something hot had flared then; impossibly large, swelling like a balloon in his chest, coursing through his veins like fire, burning away the mist that clung to him. The haze began to lift, and he could  _ see. _ He could feel the warmth spreading from Jon’s hands, clutching at his face, glowing and warming him like the rising of the sun. That single tether all at once went tight, shooting a burning white hot fire that crashed through him like the tide against the shore, consuming him completely and evaporating the chains of nothing that weighed him down. It built in his chest and rose into his throat, and he choked on it, until at last, with a sudden, gasping breath, his eyes flew wide and he fell into Jon’s waiting arms. 

If he’s honest he doesn’t really remember their flight from the Institute. All he remembers is the heat of Jon’s arms around him, Jon’s hand in his, Jon’s voice in his ears, all of it keeping him grounded after so long spent adrift. The initial blazing onslaught of emotions had faded back to a sort of faint numbness, but nothing so strong as before. Someone handed Jon a set of car keys, and he realises with a kind of distant horror that it’s Daisy’s car, and the person who probably handed over the keys was Basira. He refuses to acknowledge what it means that she surrendered them so easily, and that whatever is happening to them might not be something they’re coming back from.

Jon twitches suddenly in his seat, and Martin is pulled out of his reverie and back to his current reality. He realises with a jolt that he’s been driving on autopilot for the last little while, and even if they are just going in a straight line along the M1, it would still likely be beneficial if he was actually paying attention.

He tightens his hands on the steering wheel, knuckles a stark white amongst his freckled skin, and he sneaks a glance at the Archivist. It hurts, to look at him, seeing him like this after everything. He looks exhausted and weather worn, like he's been physically beaten down by the responsibilities and information thrust upon him. Everyone always says that people look more peaceful when they're sleeping, but from the few times Martin has been able to bear looking at Jon, he has to disagree. 

He's slumped in the passenger seat, hands gripping his elbows. His eyebrows are furrowed, his mouth tense, and his scars stand out more starkly on his skin than ever before, the dark shadows around his eyes seeming to devour his face. His clothes are rumpled and hang awkwardly off his thin frame, and his reading glasses have slipped down so far that they're almost dangling off the end of his nose. His hair is longer than normal and unkempt, and Martin wonders, dimly, if there's more grey in it than there used to be. He keeps his eyes firmly on the road however, trying to ignore the questions about Jon's well-being that press into his mind from all sides. But wait, no, he's allowed to care now. He's allowed to think about Jon, and worry and hope and dream. This is real and he is here, even if it all feels a little far away. 

Jon's dreams torture him, that much is clear. Martin isn't sure whether to wake him or not; on the one hand the archivist desperately needs the sleep, but it's clear that the sleep isn't doing much of  _ healing. _ Also, with Jon's beholding powers now as strong as they are, does he even really need to sleep? Or does he just need to read statements to keep the Eye... what - fed? He should wake him, he decides, but he also can't bring himself to do it. He still enjoys the silence more than he probably should admit, and doesn't want to risk breaking it by waking Jon. And that's almost reason enough for him  _ to _ wake Jon.

Before he can, however, Jon jolts awake of his own accord, blurting out a frantic “Martin!?” as he jerks upright, his glasses falling into his lap. His eyes are wild and Martin can tell, in the way Jon’s eyes dart around wildly, grasping for something, anything, to ground himself, that his dream lingers.

“I- Hey. Hey, I'm here.” His response is automatic, but the feeling of words in his mouth is still strange and foreign after being silent for so long.

“You - you're here.” Jon pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes and exhales. “I... I was dreaming.”

“Yeah.”

The silence hangs heavy between them, thick and suffocating, and every nerve ending in Martin's body feels alive just from the proximity between himself and Jon. He's been so alone for so long, so detached and numb that the slightest feeling is overwhelming. He managed to convince himself that he was doing the right thing by pulling away, by avoiding Jon, that it now feels strange to find himself so close to Jon again, and be  _ allowed _ to be there. He can't tell if it's a good thing or a bad thing that he feels this way.

It’s strange to be so separate from your own feelings, to the point you don’t know which are real and which are simply empty expectations. It makes no sense, even to his own mind, and it’s exhausting to think about. So, he doesn’t.

“H-how did... did you -” He stumbles over the words, gripping the steering wheel tighter as he forces his eyes to stay focused on the road, on the iron grey clouds above, on the fat drops of rain beginning to fall on the windshield in front of him. He swallows, hard, and tries again. “You... came into the Lonely. For me.” It's not a question.

“Yes.”

“H-how did you... break its grasp. On me. On- us?” It’s a question that’s been pressing on him, as much as anything can right now. He knows Jon is a powerful thing, but  _ still. _

Jon picks up his glasses from his lap with slender fingers, and places them gently back on his face. He takes so long to do this, that Martin isn’t sure he plans to answer his question at all.

“I… I don’t know.”

It’s a lie and Martin knows it, but he also knows there are some things that take time to face, and so he lets it slide despite the burning, tattered remains of his curiosity.

The silence fills the car again, but this time it’s comfortable; a simple acknowledgement of their presence in each other’s space. He can hear Jon’s gentle breathing and knows that he is there, and feels grounded and reassured by the simple sound. 

Being near Jon has always filled Martin with a certain amount of nervous energy, leaving him jittery and uncontrolled, but now he just feels… serene. He wonders if this is a side effect of the Lonely, or just something new? It might not be a good thing, but he kind of likes it; it’s nice to be able to be near Jon without feeling like he’s about to combust.

“Martin.” Jon’s voice is soft, barely a whisper really, but there's something in it that makes Martin refuse to look at him for fear of what he’ll see written on his face. 

It amuses him to think how their roles have become reversed - when they first met, Jon showed no emotion or expression, just a cold, blank mask of barely disguised disinterest. But now that mask is cracked and broken, feelings and emotions leaking through the gaps like blood, a vivid staining red that's impossible to miss. Martin used to be the opposite, he had felt everything so intensely and always found it impossible to hide how he felt. His face was an open book - it betrayed him and laid bare his every thought, his pale skin letting him turn shades of red he didn't know it was possible for humans to achieve. Now, though… Now he feels disconnected from his emotions - he knows that they're  _ there _ but he can't speak with them, can't embrace them and bask in their warmth, in their reassurance of humanity. They're there, but they are not  _ his.  _ It saddens him, but not as much as he thinks it should.

He realises Jon is probably waiting for him to say something, but he has no idea what. 

"Why did you do it?" Jon asks, in that same soft voice. He's never heard Jon speak like this until recently, and it tugs on something buried deep, on an emotional attachment that he doesn't know how to reach. 

He can see Jon gazing at him from out of the corner of his eye, and he resolutely refuses to look. Jon probably doesn’t even expect him to look; he’s driving and does actually need to keep his eyes on the road, so locking eyes is definitely not the safest thing to do right now; in fact it’s probably a sure-fire way to get themselves into a car crash. And, despite the very solid possibility that they’ll never see each other again, Martin is loath to damage Daisy’s car in any way that she could blame him for.

It's a good question, really, but Martin doesn't know how to answer without opening a whole can of worms that he's just not prepared to talk about yet. Not while they're on the road, hurtling along at 70mph into the unknown, running from something that isn’t logical or even in the realms of what could be considered  _ normal _ . He needs a hot cup of tea to ward off the chill that invades him whenever he thinks of the Lonely, and maybe a blanket to add a weight that says 'I'm here, this is real'. But at the same time, Jon deserves  _ something _ .

He opens his mouth to say something, but the words catch in his throat. What is he supposed to say? _ I did it for you? I did it to go out fighting? I did it because I had nothing, and you were all out there risking your lives to fight and all I did was sit behind and wait, and for once -  _ for once _ \- I wanted to actually do something useful? For once I didn’t want to be a burden? _

His breath hitches, and he suddenly realises he’s about to cry. His previously slumbering emotions are suddenly a roaring maelstrom inside his chest, clawing their way up his throat, choking him and making his eyes sting. He takes a ragged breath to steady himself - he’s still driving for god’s sake! - and gives a shuddering laugh that probably does more to alarm Jon than to reassure him.

“God, Martin,” Jon blurts, “I-I’m so sorry. I didn’t - I didn’t  _ think  _ -”

“Jon, no -  _ no _ . It’s okay. You-you-- You didn’t know. I mean- how could you know? Well, I suppose you could just... Look into my mind, but… yeah.”

Jon winces, and Martin isn’t sure if that makes him feel guilty or angry. His emotions, while loud as a unit, are still muted in individuality, and he can’t separate them. He’s just so- so  _ tired. _

“I want to talk about it,” He says finally, after the silence that builds while he grapples to find the right words stretches on to the point of becoming uncomfortable. “I think- I think I  _ need _ to talk about it. But not yet. Not yet, Jon, I’m just... not ready.” He gives a small shake of his head, and catches a glimpse of Jon nodding.

“I don’t expect you to be,” he says, quietly. “It’s okay.”

_ No, it’s not, _ he wants to argue, but he’s too tired. Talking has taken too much out of him, and as he thinks this, a deep exhaustion settles over him, washing him out and silencing the raging torrent inside him. 

“Can we swap soon?” is all he says, in response.

Jon is silent for a few moments, and when he replies, his voice is resigned. 

“Of course.”

*

It doesn’t take too much longer to find a service station, although they don’t linger. They’re both jumpy and nervous, ready to snap at the slightest thing - like an elastic band pulled too tight. Martin takes much longer than expected in line for the bathroom, and by the time he returns he is no longer allowed out of Jon's immediate line of sight for the rest of the time they’re there. Martin buys a box of teabags and a pint bottle of milk, and together they buy some water and sandwiches, though neither of them are actually hungry. It just seems like the normal thing to do, and that maybe, if they put on a good enough act, they can convince themselves that they’re just two regular guys, heading home after work and not two traumatised co-workers fleeing from an all-seeing eldritch horror and eternity of grey nothingness. 

It doesn’t work, of course, but they can still pretend.

They’re back on the road shortly, Jon in the driver's seat this time. Martin curls himself up in the passenger seat, tucking his legs under him, propping his elbow against the window and pressing his cheek into his hand. He studies Jon from under lidded eyes, observing the line of scars that curve up his neck from Jane Prentiss’ attack, the new scar on the palm of his hand that's nearly hidden by the steering wheel, and feels a distant echo of what may once have been sadness. It’s tiring to feel anything, so he turns away and closes his eyes fully, willing himself to fall into a deep enough sleep that he doesn’t have to face the rest of the day.

He doesn’t remember his dreams, and he is glad of it.

When he wakes several hours later, it’s a gentle process, like slowly rising up through water until you eventually break the surface. They’re not on the motorway anymore, and he realises that what woke him was the rattling of the car as they trundled slowly along a dirt track. He straightens up, unfurling his now-stiff legs and rubbing at the stinging patch on his cheek left by the press of his hand.

“Hey.” Says Jon, as Martin yawns and stretches his arms out above his head.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Martin asks, his mouth feeling dry and full of cotton. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and looks out at the rolling hills of the scottish highlands; or at least as much of them as he can make out through the soft evening light.

“You looked like you needed the sleep.”

It’s hard to argue with that, so Martin doesn’t even try. Instead, he asks, “How was the drive?”

Jon shrugs. "Uneventful. How are you feeling?" 

_ Numb? _ He thinks, but that's unhelpful and so he settles on 'better'. It's not exactly a lie, he does feel refreshed after sleeping, but it hasn't gone any kind of way to reconnecting his emotions. There's still a void where they should be, a faint echo of what's been lost. He can feel them, but they’re a thousand miles away and he has no idea how to begin such a journey, nor does he have the energy to try.

Jon, for his part, seems to know that Martin’s answer is nonsense but he chooses not to push it, yet Martin can sense his worried eyes on him. It gnaws at him, so he shifts in his seat and turns until he can no longer see Jon at all. He stares at the hills in the distance, the sky the colour of a dark navy velvet, splashed with the sparkling wonders that are stars. It’s clear enough out here for all of the stars to be out, and Martin finds that it’s breathtaking. The vastness of the sky calms him, as it's easy to let all of your problems wash away when you look at the sky and realise just how small and insignificant you are in comparison. 

His view is obscured momentarily by trees, and then the car starts to slow and Martin his head turns to see where they are. 

They've finally arrived - it's nearly one in the morning and they're in the Scottish highlands, somewhere utterly isolated and destitute, and all Martin can feel is unending relief that they're no longer in the Institute under the watchful eye of vengeful Gods. Wordlessly, Jon pulls up to the front of the safe house - house is a generous term when what sits in front of them can most definitely be best described as a shack - and cuts the engine. They sit there for a moment, gazing up at the front of what is to be their home for the next… however long they need. This whole hiding plan suddenly seems slapdash and ill-conceived, but Martin cannot bring himself to care. Instead, he opens the car door, the light flicking on, and climbs out into the cool night air. 

After eight and a half hours sitting in a car, his legs feel like rubber, cramped behind the knees where he had them bent for so long. A few stretches, another yawn, and then he's walking around to the back of the car to retrieve their bags. 

Jon had apparently been living in his office for a while, as he already had a mostly packed bag that was ready to go the moment they decided to leave. Martin, on the other hand, only had a few spare shirts, two jumpers, and one pair of trousers available inside his office. But it didn't matter, as he found he had no real attachment left to any of his belongings, and clothes can be washed and reworn. When you're hiding out in the middle of nowhere, it doesn't really matter if you wear the same shirt for six months, as long as you can wash it.

"Home sweet home," Martin jokes dryly as they climb the front steps, as much to break the silence as to convince himself that this is a good idea. Jon gives him a wry smile, and pushes open the door. They step over the threshold, Jon fumbling to find a light switch, and then the place is lit by a dim glow. If either of them is surprised that the house runs on mains electricity and not from a generator, they don't show it. 

It has a very strong cottage aesthetic - not one that Martin would've typically assigned to Daisy, but then he supposed that was probably the point. There's a sofa, a fireplace, and more importantly, a kettle. With a heavy sigh, Martin drops his bag onto the floor and beelines towards it, bag of tea supplies in hand. He doesn't look to see Jon's reaction as he first fills the kettle to the brim and puts it on to boil. He has no idea how long it's been sitting there, so he's going to boil it once before using it, because that's what you're supposed to do with kettles, and more than anything he just wants to feel  _ normal _ . 

By the time he turns back around, Jon and the bags have disappeared, presumably into the bedroom. He tries not to think about it, and instead focuses on the act of making tea. The kettle has finished boiling, so Martin takes it off the stand, dumps the water down the sink, and starts again. 

Tea is unfailing, he thinks, as he goes through the motions. It's warm, it's reliable, and just all round comforting. Maybe it's a painfully British thing to feel, but it's true. 

He leaves Jon's tea where it sits on the counter, then picks up his own and walks it to the sofa. He sits himself down, leaning his back against the arm, swinging his legs round and pulling his knees up. Jon still hasn't returned, but he can hear him moving about in another part of the house and so isn't worried. He sips at his tea absently, staring into its swirling depths with no idea what he's looking for.

"Martin…" Jon's voice is a soft sigh from the doorway, tinged with exasperation, though at what Martin couldn't possibly say. 

"I made you tea," He says, because he's Martin and making tea is what he  _ does.  _ "It's on the side."

"Thanks," Jon smiles and moves to collect it. "One issue - there's only one bed. It's a double, not that it makes much of a difference." 

Martin gives a derisive snort. "Of course there's only one bed," He mutters, more to himself than to Jon. This whole thing feels like something out of a bad fanfiction anyway, so why wouldn't there be only one bed? 

A sigh. "It's alright," Martin says, finally, still staring blankly into his tea, "I'll take the sofa." 

"No, you won't." Jon counters, immediately, like he'd been expecting it. Maybe he had. "You'll take the bed, and I'll stay out here. I don't really sleep, anyway…" He tails off, staring at Martin. 

"Martin?" 

It's just his  _ name _ , it shouldn't sound like that. It shouldn't stir up so much nameless emotion, swirling up inside him with the force of a hurricane. He wishes that it would stop, that it would go away and just give him a chance to  _ breathe _ .

"Martin, what's wrong?" 

Where to  _ start _ ? 

There's the sound of movement, then a pair of scarred hands are gently prizing his now-empty mug of tea out of his hands - wait. When did he finish his tea? It doesn't matter.

"Martin." Jon's voice is alarmed now, and it seems to echo inside Martin's head. There's a rushing sound in his ears, and he's drowning in nothingness. He just wants it all to stop. 

"Martin, whatever you're doing, whatever you're  _ thinking,  _ I need you to stop." 

He wishes he could, but his thoughts are now completely out of control. He stares hard at his knees until his eyes blur, willing his mind to calm, to  _ stop _ , but it doesn't work. The roaring is getting louder, and if he strains it almost sounds like the crashing of the tide. As he tries to focus on that sound, he hears Jon’s sharp intake of breath.

“ _ Martin _ . Oh God- Okay. Martin, I need you to  **listen to me.** ” 

Static buzzes in his ears, and the deafening cacophony of awful begins to fall away. Jon’s voice becomes clearer, until there’s eventually just him. Just Jon.

“ **Look at me, Martin. Focus on me.** ”

Slowly, almost mechanically, Martin turns his head until he’s looking directly at Jon, who is kneeling at the side of the sofa, both his hands clasped around one of Martin’s arms. His eyes are wide and frantic, darting back and forth across Martin’s face. Martin meets his eyes, but he feels like he’s just looking  _ at _ Jon, not really seeing him, or anything else in front of him.

“ **Take a deep breath,** ” Jon says, locking their eyes together with laser focus, **“Like this.** ” He starts taking very slow, obvious breaths for Martin to copy, his eyes imploring.

Abruptly, Martin realises that his breaths are coming in broken, shaky puffs, like long and ragged gasps. With a great effort, he desperately starts trying to pace his breathing with Jon’s exaggeratedly deep breaths.

“That’s it,” Jon exhales, stroking a hand down the side of Martin’s arm in time with their breathing. “You’re alright. You’re here. I’m not letting you go that easily.” He adds, with a shaky laugh. It’s a poor attempt at humor, but Martin appreciates the effort as his eyes fill with tears.

Suddenly, the realisation of what just happened slams into Martin, almost crushing him under its weight, and he throws himself forward into Jon, flinging his arms around the other man’s shoulders, desperately needing the reassuring feel of another body and a warm hug.

It takes Jon a startled moment to respond, but when he does, he crushes Martin against him, allowing Martin to bury his face in the crook of his neck and sob. He is so far from okay, so unbelievably lost and adrift, but here in the circle of Jon’s arms, he feels… anchored.

They stay like that - Martin tipped forwards off the sofa and into Jon’s embrace - for an immeasurably long time, until Martin’s sobs eventually subside and they’re just left clinging to each other as if their lives depend upon each other. And who knows, maybe they do.

Jon is the first one to break the embrace, gently pulling back and cupping one of Martin’s cheeks with his hand. He leans forwards, tucking Martin’s head under his chin and sighing deeply.

“Come on,” He says, into Martin’s softly curling hair. Jon’s chin scratches lightly against Martin’s scalp as he speaks, and Martin finds himself blown away by the casual intimacy of the feeling. More so, however, when Jon follows this up by pressing a kiss into his hair, and whispering, “let’s go to bed.” It’s a statement that brokers no argument, and as Jon stands up, gently tugging Martin to his feet as he does so, he is helpless to do anything other than follow.

Jon leads him by the hand through into the bedroom, flicking off the lights as they pass through the doorway and into the next room. Whatever Jon had been doing while Martin was absent-mindedly making tea, it had involved tucking their bags away neatly and apparently changing the sheets on the bed, as Jon has no qualms about guiding them straight towards it. 

They part only briefly to undress; they stay in their boxers, obviously, but they both have shirts purposefully for sleeping in - Jon's is ratty and Martin's is oversized, but they are soft and comforting and right now that is all that they need. 

They come back together once they're under the duvet, though, Jon opening his arms for Martin to fold himself into. Martin's blood is roaring, but in a decidedly pleasant way, and he feels shaky and alert. He's never going to be able to sleep like this! His heart is pounding a mile a minute, but, as Jon strokes a calloused hand ever so gently along his back, he feels more settled and present than he has in months. 

All the stress and tension and confusion seeps out of him in a single, slightly unsteady sigh, and he pushes himself deeper into Jon's embrace, revelling in the warmth that comes from his body to chase away the remaining chill of the Lonely's grasp.

"Please," He hears Jon murmur into his hair, a comforting whisper he's not sure if he's supposed to hear, "Don't do that again. Don't let the Lonely take you from me again." 

He hadn't realised how close he'd been, there on that sofa, to returning to that cold and empty beach, to turning himself invisible and fading away once more. He had heard the song of the Lonely, beckoning him to come back to it's calm and pain free shores; _you can be at peace here_ , it says, _you don't have to feel_ _anything you don't want to,_ it says, _nothing can touch you here._ It scares him to realise how easy it would be to give in to the oblivion, and almost how much he wants to. But as he feels Jon shift against him, pulling him closer, he feels his eyes flutter closed and thinks that this here, this moment, is worth everything they've been through to get it. 

They press themselves together as they fall asleep, the motion neither inherently romantic nor sexual, but the kind of close, necessary intimacy that says _you_ _are not alone, I am here, I am with you._

And for the first time since this all began, neither one of them has nightmares.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin talks. Jon listens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hooooo mama theres more!
> 
> ms celine dion, bring us home

* * *

When Martin wakes the next morning, he’s surprised to realise just how warm and peaceful he feels. The horrors of the day before feel far away, and all he can focus on is Jon’s body pressed flush against his back, one arm slung casually around his waist. He feels… grounded, and safe.

The sun is streaming in through the curtains they forgot to close last night, which is undoubtedly what woke Martin in the first place. The memories of the night before come back, slowly rolling in like fog during the night, winding its way through him and chilling him once again. He feels suddenly guilty for enjoying the warmth and comfort that Jon provides, when he still doesn’t know which of his feelings are present and which are the ghostly imprints of those that have faded out of existence. It doesn't seem fair, somehow, to share intimate moments from Jon when he has so little of himself left to give in return. 

He closes his eyes, sighs deeply, and then slides himself out from under Jon’s arm and rolls out of bed. He pauses on the threshold of the room to momentarily watch Jon sleep. He looks peaceful this time; the worries on his face are smoothed out, and he actually looks his age for once. Martin feels a pang of something nameless and aching from deep inside him, rising up into his chest, and he turns away before it can crawl into his throat and choke him. 

It’s cold in the safehouse, as Martin moves from the bedroom to the kitchen, and he looks for a way to light the fire, filling the kettle and putting it on to boil while he does so. He avoids looking at the sofa, as if just the sight of it might reopen the yawning pit inside of him, although in the bright light of the morning the pit feels… quiet. Slumbering. It's still eating away at him, swallowing his emotions until they're shreds of what they were before, but it's lessened, somehow.

He hadn’t expected all the emotions to magically come back at once, leaving him feeling none the worse for having been in the Lonely’s presence for so long - he’s not that naive - but he’d expected _something_. He’d expected more than this hollow, empty, _angry_ feeling that has followed him all the way to Scotland. He presses a hand to his chest, as if he could relieve the pressure in there just like that. He wonders, bitterly, if this might be all that there is to him now. A flat, empty shell; an echo of who he used to be. 

He takes a deep breath and turns towards the window. He can’t think like this; he can’t keep torturing himself with questions he has no way of knowing the answer to, it’s not going to help him in the slightest. He gazes out at the flat, open expanse of rolling highlands, dotted with patches of scrub grass and heather, and sighs, deeply, to clear his head. The hills stretch away into the distance, a promise of something new and clear. He might not be able to feel much of anything right now, but looking out at the endless horizon, he feels… Free. He’s in Scotland. He’s miles from anything or anyone who can hold him to anything that he’s expected to be. Nobody has any expectations of him here, no degree he’s supposed to have, no Eldritch horrors telling him what to do. There’s no pressures, no responsibilities… there’s just nothing. He can start again, new and fresh. He can start over with Jon, if that’s what he wants. If that’s what Jon wants. He feels a tiny flicker of something from something buried deep, and realises, with a small smile, that it’s the beginnings of excitement.

He turns back from the window, intending to cross to the fireplace to test if it’s safe to light, when he realises that the kettle has boiled. He desperately wants his morning cup of tea, so he abandons lighting the fire for now, and drifts back across the room, picking up his mug from the night before to reuse. He briefly wishes he'd had the forethought to put some trousers on, as the morning air is chill against his bare legs, but he's so used to the cold at this point that he doesn't really mind. 

He has no idea when Jon's going to wake up, so elects not to make him a cup, but leaves enough water in the kettle that he can make one for him with relative ease when he does wake. He beats the teabag against the side of the mug for a moment, before fishing it out and throwing it into the bin. Splash of milk, no sugar, and he's good to go. A good cup of tea heals all ills, he's always said,and perhaps it's comforting warmth will help him think. 

He managed to take all of one step towards the fireplace when the door to the room opens with a loud bang. Jon's standing there, staring at him, his face wild and his hair a tousled mess. 

"Martin," He sighs by way of greeting, eyes sliding closed and the lines of tension dropping from his body. Martin can't help the gentle warmth that crawls up the back of his neck as he looks at Jon, standing in the doorway in a general state of disarray; his hair attractively rumpled, wearing only an old t-shirt and a pair of boxers. 

"What?" Martin, surprised as much by his own feelings as he is by Jon's sudden appearance, feels a warm flush begin to creep up the back of his neck, surely turning the tips of his ears pink. 

"You weren't there," Jon says, as if that explains everything. 

"Erm," Jon stutters, realising that his explanation makes sense only to himself. "W-when I woke up. You weren't there, and I thought - I thought--" He drags a hand up his face with a frustrated groan, and when he speaks again his voice is tender. 

"I thought I'd lost you."

Martin's stomach drops out from under him with a nauseating swoop, and he can't help but think, angrily, how wildly unfair this all is. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how to deal with a Jon who is soft and gentle, especially when he hardly knows how to handle his own self. The simmering emotions he has felt since waking up shut down automatically, a self defence mechanism that he doesn't know how to disable. 

"I was making tea," is all he says, in the end, nodding towards the mug in his hands. 

Jon's eyebrows raise slightly, though his face otherwise gives away nothing. And if Martin hadn't spent months carefully watching and cataloguing every tiny shift in Jon's body language for a sign of emotional response, he wouldn't have known precisely what that expression means. 

"I see." Jon says, and Martin is afraid that he does; afraid that Jon sees too much and yet understands so little all at once, seeing all of the wrong things and none of the right. 

Jon nods, then mutters something about putting on trousers and disappears from the room, leaving Martin alone once again.

All the warmth of the morning has fled from him, replaced by a dull, bone aching loneliness. He heads to the sofa, no longer afraid of what might happen and instead desperate for something to sit on before he starts to cry. He doesn't, of course, he's too empty for that, but instead he just feels that strange pressure behind his eyes. 

His tea is a pleasant drinking temperature, and as he sips from it and feels the warmth attempting to heat him from the inside, he realises he wants to talk everything through. Maybe vocalising will help him make sense of it all, and at the very least it will be nice to speak real words again. 

It has been such a long six months, and he has been so completely isolated by his own choices and mistakes, but here with Jon, in a safehouse at the edge of the world, he realises he no longer wants to be alone. It's a gently rising feeling, like waking up from a dream, and it dawns on him that it's one that's been stirring ever since he heard Jon's voice calling to him on that lonely beach. He buried the feeling so deep while enacting his plan that he lost sight of it entirely, but Jon - ridiculous, disastrous Jon - came crashing into his personal space and compelled it awake. A small smile blooms on Martin's face, and as he downs the last dregs of his tea, another emotion begins to bubble up from within him - one he can name. Hope.

 _Hope and excitement_ , he thinks, as he stands up to go and find Jon. _Not a bad place to start._

* * *

It was very disorienting, Martin decided, going from practically living in the archives and surreptitiously dodging Jon, to living with Jon in a cottage in Scotland. He still wasn’t completely sure it wasn’t some kind of Spiral delusion, but if it is then it’s one that he’s going to fully embrace. After all, who’s going to stop them?

“Jon?” One hand on the doorframe, he hovers hesitantly on the room's threshold. Despite saying he was going back for the purpose of putting on trousers, Jon hasn’t done anything of the sort, and instead he's sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to Martin. It had looked like he had been holding his head in his hands, but had lifted it when he heard Martin approaching. 

“Martin?”

It’s so disgustingly tender, the way they say each other’s names, like they’re drinking in the fact that they’re both here and they both survived; but if Martin notices he pretends not to, continuing to stand anxiously in the doorway.

“Hey,” he says, his voice small. He doesn’t know where to start. Looking at Jon sitting there, looking small and vulnerable, something sticks in his throat and he can’t get any words out. The whole thing is a mess, they’re both a mess, and he has no idea what to do about any of it, and he hates it.

“I did it for you.” He blurts, finally, and then blushes a deep and furious red.

“I-I...” Jon stammers, looking bewildered.

“I mean, obviously I didn’t _start_ out doing it for you, specifically - because you were in that coma - but I-I had to do _something_ , you know? And I figured - I don’t know - if I could keep Peter’s attention on me then- then we wouldn’t lose anyone _else_. That was the agreement we came to, right? That I’d work for him if he left the others alone? I mean, it-it... it didn’t matter if I died, ‘cause at that point I had _nothing_.”

The words are coming out in gasps, and he gestures rapidly with hands while he stares - at them, at the floor, at the walls, at anywhere but Jon’s horror stricken face. He feels his eyes well with tears, but he can’t stop the flow of words now he's started, and he’s not sure he even wants to. It feels good to get everything out, as ragged and broken as his words feel in his throat. 

“My mother was dead, Daisy was probably dead, Tim was dead, Sasha was dead and I can't even _remember_ her, and _you_ -”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, then lifts his gaze to meet Jon’s eyes. The anguish on the other man’s face is enough to make Martin’s tears slip free, spilling over and sliding down his cheeks, leaving a burning trail behind. 

“You were medically _dead_ , Jon.” He says, and the words twist his heart to say. He knows Jon is alive now, and standing in front of him, but just saying it brings back everything he’d felt in those six months when he hadn’t been. All the dread and the pain and the guilt and the overwhelming, suffocating feeling of loss. It fills his throat, strangling him, drowning him. “Do you have any idea what that was _like_ -?” His voice breaks, and he takes another deep breath to steady himself.

“So yeah, I went to Peter. Said I’d work for him if he kept the others out of it. I could - I don’t know, maybe I’d do something useful, maybe I’d just get myself killed, but either way I’d have done _something_. And then- then… And then you came _back_.” His voice cracks on the last word, and he presses his lips together to stop himself from crying any harder. Tears are still trailing down his cheeks, but he doesn't need to make this any harder for either of them by bursting into sobs. 

“Martin…” Jon breathes, and he gets to his feet, taking a step forward, but Martin shakes his head at him. He can't do this if Jon is too near or trying to comfort him - he'll get distracted or lose himself and he needs to be focused. This is too important. 

“You came back, and I had a reason again. I had to keep Peter away from you, keep him focused on me. But you were- you kept seeking me out. It was so hard, so goddamn hard to push you away, to keep you thinking I didn't want you around, that I channelled all of my anger and bitterness at you for leaving - for everything - and I think I eventually lost myself to it. And I saw you believe me, and stop looking for me. Fuck- Jon, it _hurt_. But it was working! So it didn’t _matter_ how much it hurt, because I could- I could do it! And then,” he huffs a short laugh, “and then you had to come and tell me you’d found a way to leave.”

Jon sucks in a short breath, and Martin laughs again, humourlessly. “God, Jon." He says, raking his hands through his hair, "Do you- do you have any idea what that _did_ to me? You just- you come bursting into my office, asking me to blind myself and run away with you, like some kind of twisted fucking _fairytale_?”

He draws in a ragged breath as Jon tries to stammer something, but Martin presses on, steamrolling over whatever Jon might try to say.

“You have no idea - _no idea_ \- how much I wanted to say yes. To abandon everything and go with you - but I couldn’t, I _couldn’t_ , and I had no way to explain to you _why_ , I just had to send you away thinking I didn't want you. I hate how easy it was, to bring up that anger and use it- use it against you. I was in way too deep with Peter, and I was so- so _angry_ at everything, all the time. At Peter, at Elias, at you… at myself, for getting myself into that shit in the first place, that when Peter came in to say it was time, I just- I didn’t care anymore. I was just so ready for it all to be over, that I didn’t care what happened to me. You were safe - you even had a way out! - that it didn’t matter what happened. I mean, I refused in the end, ‘cause it was all bullshit, but… still.”

“And then he threw me into the Lonely.”

They lock eyes again, and a fresh wave of pain rolls through Martin as he sees just how much agonised sorrow is written plainly on Jon’s face. He thought he’d Known. Apparently not.

“I was going to stay there, you know. I’d lost everything - I’d pushed you away - and I just...- I gave up. I _wanted_ to give up. It was nice, y'know? Not to hurt anymore? Not to care? It was such a-a relief not to feel anything, after almost a year of _hell_ , that I nearly gave in. A-and then- you were there.”

Another deep breath in, a long, slow exhalation out. Steady. He clenches his fingers into fists and stares at them, until they blur, resolutely refusing to look at Jon. He feels like a bottle, shaken and unstoppered, all of the words and emotions built up inside finally pouring out in a single, unbroken torrent. 

Jon is holding his breath, waiting. Waiting for Martin to speak, his eyes wide and full of tears, face flushed, pain and desperation etched into every line of his body. Jon wants to go to him, to hug him, to reassure him that everything will be okay, and he’ll never have to go through that again. But he can’t move. He feels stunned and frozen, rooted to the spot, and besides, how can he assure him of something like that? There’s no telling what they’ll find themselves up against next, so any promises he might make would be empty, and Martin deserves better than that. Martin deserves the world, and right now, Jon is prepared to give it to him.

Martin’s mouth is moving again, and it takes Jon a couple of seconds to figure out what he’s saying.

“And-and you… You faced down Peter Lukas, and _won_. For- for _me_. And I realised - I realised I _wanted_ to come back. It didn’t matter how much it hurt, I-I wanted it. I wanted it back. I wanted _you_ back. But I didn't know _how_ \- I didn’t know how to connect anymore - I still don't, really - and I didn’t know- I didn’t know how to _get_ back. But, I suppose, you fixed that one for me, too. And, I guess…” He adds, and he comes to a shuddering halt, “I guess you know the rest.”

“Tell me,” Jon says immediately, his voice barely audible. “Tell me anyway.”

“Why?” Martin laughs, somewhat sardonically, scrubbing furiously at his eyes with the backs of his hands, “Is this like a statement for you?”

“No,” He says, and his face is so open that Martin believes him, “I just- want to hear it from you.”

“Oh.”

He’s shaking now, worrying at his lower lip, and he wants nothing more than to throw himself at Jon, to get that warm reassurance from the feeling of his body pressed against his own, but- not yet. Not yet, not while there’s still more to say, more to uncover, more to _remember_. It's coming back. Drip by drip, piece by piece, his sense of self is coming back to him with every word. It doesn't hurt, like he thought it might, but it feels _right_. Right in a way that nothing has ever felt before.

“Well- You- you just... _appeared_. And you told me to look at you. So... So I did. And- I saw you. I - I saw you, Jon - all of you, and I wasn't afraid. And-and then I knew.” His breath catches, and he gives a shaky laugh to steady himself. “I knew- I knew the way home.”

His body feels alive with the tension in the room, strung taut like a piece of elastic stretched to breaking point; he’s barely breathing, and he’s fairly sure Jon isn’t either. He has no idea what’s about to happen, but the tension is the room is suffocating.

Jon blinks, a single tear spilling over from one eye, and Martin watches it carve a path along Jon’s cheek; over dark lashes, pockmark scars, down to his strong jaw dashed with stubble, until he lifts a scarred hand to wipe it away.

In the end, that’s what breaks the spell. The simple movement of lifting a hand to brush away a tear has them coming unstuck, covering the space between each other in few large strides until they collide at last, fitting together as if they’d been designed for it; like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle slotting into place. 

Jon opens his arms for him, and Martin crashes into the embrace with a gasp. He can feel Jon’s long fingers digging into his back through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and he can feel every bone of Jon’s spine under his own hands as he presses him closer, closer. He can feel… He can feel… in one great big sob, everything comes unravelled, and Martin can feel _everything_. It’s a dizzying assault, but it’s wonderful, so wonderful, that he can’t help the way he presses his face into the crook of Jon's neck, breathing in the scent of him, basking in his warmth. 

Jon’s laughing, the sound so strange and remarkable amidst everything surrounding them, that Martin can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from inside him, breaking through amongst the sobs. Jon pulls back, breaking their hold on each other, but cupping Martin’s face in his hands and pressing their foreheads together. They’re so close that Martin could count the individual eyelashes on Jon’s face if he wants, or name the flecks of colour in Jon’s eyes; Jon’s whole face is alight with something Martin doesn’t want to put a name to for fear of being wrong, and Jon laughs again, more gently this time.

“Love,” Jon breathes, eyes drifting closed and eyebrows pulling together, as he twists his head slightly, pressing their foreheads more tightly together.

“Huh?” Martin manages, feeling giddy. His head is swimming, and he feels as if he’s drunk, floating somewhere outside of his body in complete disbelief that any of this is happening. He closes his eyes, as if it might help ground him. He feels… shaky and untethered, his whole focus on the man standing in front of him and the feel of his hands against his face.

“You asked- last night, you asked how I- how I broke the Lonely’s grasp,” Jon’s words are clumsy as he falls over them, but he pushes onwards, letting them tumble from his mouth. It’s the most inelegant Martin’s ever heard him sound, and somehow, it’s beautiful. “I said I didn’t know, but I just- I wasn’t sure. I-I-I know now, though, and it’s- it’s love. It’s love.”

It takes a moment for Martin to process his words, and when he does he pauses, letting them wash over him. He feels the very weight of the words settle into him, soaking through his skin, and warming the spaces between the cracks in his very being. And then, as he realizes what they imply, he asks, ever so softly, “You love me?”

Jon huffs a dry laugh, his breath hot on Martin’s face.

“Yes,” He says, and Martin’s whole body flushes, hot like the sun, “Yes, I love you. I love you, Martin.” He says it with an air of incredulity, but also with a sigh of relief, as if it's something unknown that's consumed him for so long, and the name that he's found for it is the one he least expected.

“I-” Martin croaks, feeling completely ridiculous and undignified, with his face flushed scarlet and tear tracks staining his cheeks, but his smile is so wide it might split his face in two. He opens his eyes, and Jon is beaming, actually _beaming_ , and it’s so beautiful that Martin knows just how true the words are the second they leave his mouth.

“I love you too.”

One of them gasps - it’s probably Jon - and then Jon’s hands are in Martin’s hair, dragging him forwards, and then they’re kissing. The kiss is… _everything_. It's raw desperation and wonder, a passion so intense that Martin feels like he might catch fire. His hands reach out of their own volition, fingers digging into the soft skin around Jon’s waist and yanks, propelling them both forward until their bodies slam together, and they both gasp in surprise.

It’s intoxicating, kissing Jon, something he never really thought he’d ever get to do. Of course he’d fantasised about it before, back when things were sensible and normal. But this- this is _unreal_. He digs his fingers into Jon’s back, partly for reassurance that this is real and that this is happening, and partly because he desperately craves the feel of Jon against himself; his anchor, his _home_. Jon’s lips are hot on his own, their breath mingling together in the limited space between them, and he feels so indescribably _alive_.

Jon's nails scrape against his scalp and he shudders, his lips faltering and breath stuttering. Jon makes a sound low in his throat, and Martin is lost. Maybe his encounter with the Lonely has left him with irreparable scars, but they have led him to this moment and that just may - possibly - be worth it. 

As Jon slides one hand down his spine to press against the small of his back, Martin groans, and presses himself a little closer to Jon. Of course he loves him, he thinks, surprised that he ever doubted it, and amazed at the warmth the thought brings. As if he could ever stop loving him; even in the depths of despair and numbness, Jon was always there. He may have locked his feelings in a trunk and lost the key, but Jon is there to shatter the lock and bring them back into the light. 

He may have given up on himself, but Jon never had, and that makes the fight worth it.

“Never again,” Jon breathes between kisses, “You’ll never have to be alone again.”

And Martin does not need the powers of the Beholding to know, with all the certainty of his heart, that Jon means it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont even know what im doing anymore, but i couldnt just leave the ambiguous and vaguely painful end like that, especially when i wanted to write I LOVE YOU
> 
> yes the title is blatant through this entire chapter and i, for once, am not ashamed!!
> 
> lmk what you think!! will there be yet more added to this monster thing that keeps growing without me knowing? maybe so!
> 
> all of yall who left comments or kudos or even just made it to the end - i love u so much!!

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for making it this far!!! again, if you think i need to tag something please tell me!!
> 
> the start is definitely a bit stiff bc i haven't written anything in so long, but i'm proud of this one regardless!
> 
> loved it? hated it? let me know!! <3


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